


The Plague years

by vandevere



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: AU, Drama, Fantasy, Gen, scifi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:59:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandevere/pseuds/vandevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Change Plague comes to earth.  The entire world, and all who live on it are changed.  Now, everyone must decide if they will fight for right; or succumb to the darkness. Rated Teen and up for language and violence</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the beginning...

_Cicero, Illinois_

Were it not for Sigrid and his two beautiful children, Nelson Van Alden would have found living and working in Cicero, Illinois to be hell…

He had tried his hand at sales-the Farrady Electric Iron Company-and his failure there had been…spectacular, to say the least…

With no other job prospects available, he had drifted, somehow, into Dean O’Banion’s orbit, and found a job there, working at the man’s flower shop, among other things…

 _Collections_ …

 _I used to be a Prohibition Agent, and now I've sunk to this_ …

He had fallen; and his fall from grace had been steep, and final…

He had murdered; a fellow Prohibition Agent-Eric Sebso-and was now a wanted man. So, now hiding under the alias of George Mueller, he was doing the best he could to provide for his family; and if that meant taking money from hapless citizens on the orders of a gangster, so be it…

But, even as he was doing all of this, events out in the wide world were taking place; events that would very soon change the entire world, and plunge Van Alden into a personal hell the likes of which he could never have imagined.

At first, everyone thought it was the Spanish Flu come again.

Everyone…literally everyone got sick. There were fatalities. Not as many as with the Spanish Flu, but still considerable.

It was the survivors that troubled and worried the world…

At first it was reports of odd abilities; clairvoyance, mind reading, and the like; things spiritualists had been conning people over for centuries, so at first, no one thought anything about it…

Then, things took a more serious turn…

Telekinesis, psychocreativity, Prescience, and  _proven_ mental healing; along with some… _darker_ manifestations, like shape shifting, and the ability to drain the life essence from other living things…

The thought of O’Banion, or the Capone Brothers with abilities like that gave Van Alden a colossal case of the shivers.

Of course, now his shivers were probably due to other, far more pressing causes. Walking home from O’Banion’s flower shop, his head aching dully, he pulled his overcoat more tightly around him.

Chills, and an aching head…

 _I can't afford to be sick.  I've got a family to provide for_ …

“Husband!” Sigrid, as usual, was happy to see him. Mercifully for his aching head, at this time of evening, the small house was quiet; the children fed, bathed, and put to bed.

Sigrid helped him out of his coat, and laid a gentle hand on his cheek, a gesture that never failed to calm the maelstrom in Van Alden’s heart.

“Oh!’ she exclaimed. “You are hot! Your head…it hurts?”

“Yes…”Van Alden admitted. “It hurts.”

“Hot soup,” Sigrid decided. “A little akvavit, then bed.”

By the next morning, Van Alden was delirious with fever, ill with what everyone was now calling the Change Plague. Sigrid had sent the children to stay at a friend’s house; afraid they would catch the Plague, afraid they would see their father die.

Van Alden was aware of none of this. He lay within an ocean of terrifying nightmares, punctuated by brief periods of lucidity; reality appearing in brief snatches of time. He vividly recalled seeing the doctor looming over him, and the feel of the stethoscope, icy cold against his chest. The doctor looked worried, and Sigrid was crying. Then the fever took him again, and he was back in the lake…

 _His hands hold Eric Sebso down in the water, and the other man's limbs flail as he drowns_ …

 _I deserve to die_ …

But who would provide for Sigrid and the children?

Other dreams followed, horrifying images…a man with glowing white eyes, and in his wake death and destruction, the bodies of men and women shredding into bloody red mist at a gesture of his hands…

Abruptly, Van Alden opened his eyes…

He felt feather light, as if a strong breeze would float him away. He was in his bed, under warm blankets, and daylight seeped in through the curtains. A gentle hand caressed him, palm settling on his forehead.

“Ah…”Sigrid’s voice. “The fever, it is broken…”

Next time he opened his eyes, it was dark outside. The bedroom door opened, and Sigrid backed in, carrying a tray, the aroma of her good beef broth filling the room.

“You’re awake!” she smiled as she set the tray on a table.

“Look at you!” she fussed over him, piling pillows behind his back so he could sit up.

“All skin and bones you are, my love. You must eat!”

The broth was simple and good, and Van Alden began to feel a little stronger.

“We were all so worried!” Sigrid spoke earnestly. “The fever had you for six whole days. You almost died of it!”

Van Alden was horrified.

“I was out of it for six days?”

“Yes”

“My job…” Van Alden felt panic bubble up inside.

“No, Husband,” Sigrid took his hand. “O’Banion caught the Plague too, and died of it. The Capones are ill of it too, but they haven’t died yet, I’m told. You must rest first. When you are well, then you can search for a job.”

* * *

_Atlantic City_

_I'd like to give the god who wished the Change Plague on us a piece of my mind_ …

Enoch Thompson-Nucky to one and all-had taken ill with it…

 _Out of it for four fuckin' days_ …

Now, still feeling somewhat wobbly, he was back in his office, trying to assess the damage wrought by his unexpected absence.

 _Thank the Lord for Margaret_ …

The erstwhile Mrs. Schroeder had stayed in the office that whole time, had kept the ship floating, and more or less on course.

The wild stories about Plague survivors developing strange abilities unnerved Nucky; almost as much as the recurring nightmare he had started having immediately upon his recovery from the Plague…

 _Not Atlantic City_ … _Standing in a heavy downpour_ , _Richard Harrow by his side_ , _he and Harrow both drenched by the rain_. _The car is idling on the road_ , _a twisty country backroad that leads off who knows where_ … _Nucky feels compelled to walk off the road_ , _onto the muddy ground_. _Then, he comes across the body_ …

 _It lies face up on the muddy ground_ , _and the rain hasn't washed the blood away_. _The man is dead_. _But Dream-Nucky knows_ , _in his blood and bones_ , _that he has to take the body_ , _take it back to Atlantic City_. _If he doesn't_ , _the world will burn_ …

Nucky shuddered. He could have sworn he knew that dead man. The face, what he could see of it through all the blood, looked familiar. He  _knew_ the guy…

 _But where have I seen him before_?

Nucky snorted in self-disgust.

 _You know it's bad when you start angsting over a dream_ …

* * *

_Cicero_

_I used to be a Federal agent.  Look at me now_ …

There Nelson Van Alden was. Wearing his best suit, sitting just outside the Capone…office?

It didn’t sound like any office Van Alden was familiar with. Loud music was playing, and he could hear raucous laughter. But he had met the Capone Brothers before.

 _They are not overly known for their formality of behavior_ …

“Mr. Mueller?” a Capone tough poked his head out the door. “He’ll see you now.”

Van Alden followed the man in, hat clenched between his fingers. Briefly, he wanted to turn and run. But the days where he could have found more…respectable employment were long gone.

Al Capone was alone in the office, and the Change Plague apparently hadn’t changed Al’s cocaine habit. He was sniffling, snorting, and wiping his nose when Van Alden was ushered in.

“Mueller!” Al seemed happy to see him. “How’ve ya been? Heard ya got the Plague and all…”

“I am…fine, sir,” Van Alden twisted his hat, crushing it between his fingers.

“That’s good,” Capone nodded. “Frank will be back in a few days. He especially asked me to look you over.”

“Me…sir?” Van Alden couldn’t help the reflexive hunching of his shoulders, as if his body expected a blow from some unforeseen quarter.

“You’re… _strange_ , George,” Capone shook his head. “What am I gonna do with you?”

Van Alden felt the blood drain from his face. Last time Capone had said that, he had taken a fork to Van Alden’s face.

“Relax, Mueller,” Capone chuckled. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Lookin’ for a job?”

“Uh…yes, sir.”

“You’ve proven you can handle yourself in a scrap,” Capone mused. “And, like I said, Frank’s interested in you; wants to meet you special-like and talk to you. For now, though, you’ll be taking over Angie’s territory.”

“ _Angie_?”

“Angelo Fusco,” Capone explained. “The Plague took him, God rest his soul. Any questions?”

 _More Collections_ …

“When do I start?”

“Right now, Mueller, and the clock’s tickin’. Get to work.”

So now Van Alden’s job was to extort money from hard-working citizens.

 _Lord, how the mighty have fallen_ …

But, no matter how low he had fallen, Van Alden still had his duty to his wife and children.

He would to whatever it took to feed them, clothe them, and shelter them. That was his duty as Husband and Father…


	2. Choosing Sides...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nucky realizes what he must do. Nelson Van Alden discovers what the new Powers can do...
> 
> Warning...  
> There is blood.

Nelson Van Alden was settling into his new job with the Capones. All in all, it was turning out to be a rather mixed bag…

On the plus side of the balance sheet, the Capones paid their minions well, and were generous with bonus payments for good performance.

On the other hand, Van Alden’s job now consisted of taking money from good people, and giving it to bad.

Also, some of his…business associates…were just a little…problematic.

Gyp Rosetti, in particular, scared the hell out of Van Alden.

Before the Plague, Rosetti had had his own operation, situated mostly on the East Coast.

He had been known for his sartorial style, sexual practices that were…questionable, to say the least-rumor had it he liked to be on the receiving end of a good strangulation-and extremely violent responses on the flimsiest of pretexts.

In short, a bit of a nutcase…

He had also been considered attractive, in a muscular, somewhat fleshy way.

The Change Plague had changed Rosetti rather more…spectacularly…than the average Plague survivor.

Rosetti now topped ten feet in height; with an increase in bone and muscle mass that left him at least twice as muscular as he had been before.

But he couldn’t run his own operation any more…

People took one look at him, and they ran screaming; although it wasn’t the size of the man that did it so much as it was the tusks…

The man looked like a beast, and he acted like one too; and Van Alden was terrified that Rosetti might take a dislike to him.

 _He could snap me in half like a twig_ …

Also, seeing the Plague-wrought changes in Rosetti brought other worries to Van Alden.

_Did it Change me too?  Will I suddenly turn into something...horrible?_

* * *

_Atlantic City_

_Nucky Thompson stands over the body lying in the mud_. _He sighs, bends down and begins to haul the body over his shoulder_ …

Nucky jerked awake in the comfort of his bed.

 _Damn!  That fucking dream again_ …

The Sun was just barely peering over the horizon, and Nucky briefly considered rolling over and going back to bed. He wasn’t any kind of morning person.

 _What if I have that damn dream again_?

“Shit…” Nucky tossed the sheets aside, rolled out of bed.

Dressed, and shaved, he took Breakfast in the Morning Room with its large picture window letting in the morning sunlight.

He could see Richard Harrow through one of the windows. He had been helping out these last few months, body-guarding Margaret Schroeder’s children. That distinctive half-mask hid a truly grotesque war injury, and Nucky had to respect him. In spite of an injury that would have had most men hiding in darkened rooms for the rest of their lives, Richard Harrow was out in the world, making a life for himself.

Nucky gestured to the maid.

“Invite him in for coffee.”

Minutes later, Richard Harrow was standing in the room.

“Mr. Thompson…”

“Please…Call me Nucky” Thompson gestured to the chairs at the breakfast table. “Please, take a seat.”

Harrow sat and the maid poured coffee.

“I bet you’re wondering why I called you in.”

“Yes, sir,” Harrow’s voice was low and raspy.

“Thing is, I’m not really sure myself…”

“Sir?”

“What do you know about the Change Plague?”

“Had it myself,” Harrow shrugged. “People get changed by it. Some big, some small, some so little it’s hardly any change at all.”

“Has anything…changed…for you?”

“Don’t know…” Harrow’s head cocked. “How about you?”

“Just dreams,” Nucky stopped for a second.

“No,” he spoke again. “Not dreams. Just one dream. Every night, it’s the same dream; over and over again…”

Richard Harrow sat very straight, very still.

“Tell me,” that low voice rasped.

* * *

_Cicero, Illinois_

Today had been good. All the people on Van Alden’s Collection List for today had had their money in hand and ready when he had come knocking on their door, so he had finished his day’s work far earlier than he expected to. It was only around two in the afternoon when he had returned to the office with the day’s money.

“You did well today, Mueller,” Al Capone had said. “Take the rest of the day off and celebrate with your wife.”

He had pressed a thick wad of bills into Van Alden’s hands, slapped him heartily on the back, and taken off.

Van Alden looked down at the wad of cash in his hands.

It was the same amount as his yearly salary back when he had been a Prohibition Agent.

The old saw was apparently quite wrong.

Crime  _did_ pay, and very nicely too.

Van Alden carefully folded the bills, put them in his pocket.

 _Sigrid will be pleased_ …

Smiling one of his rare smiles, he headed outside. It was a bright sunny day; perfect walking weather. He prized those long walks back to his house. It gave him a chance to put the evils of the day’s work behind him, so his family would always see a cheerful-looking husband and father. Today, however, he saw a little girl hit by a passing automobile…

Her leg was clearly broken, the knee bent in a direction knees were never meant to bend. Van Alden knelt over her, along with several men from the neighborhood.

“It needs to be splinted,” Van Alden said to no one in particular, his hands reaching out. Suddenly, his eyes filled with sun-dazzle, and his hands felt burning hot…

The world lurched around him, and light exploded behind his eyes.

And something slapped his hands away…

“Get your fucking hands off her, you freak!”

“What?” Suddenly dizzy, Van Alden shook his head, trying to clear it.

 _What just happened_?

“What the fuck did you just do to her?” the same voice, male, heavy, and threatening, demanded.

A pair of meaty hands dragged Van Alden to his feet, slammed him against a brick was; knocking all the breath out of his lungs.

“He’s one of the Changed,” another voice announced. “He healed her leg like it was nothing at all…”

“No!” Van Alden shook his head frantically. “I didn’t heal anyone!”

But he saw the little girl get up and run away.

_Oh...god..._

“A filthy, unholy Changed laying its hands on our children…”

Again, Van Alden was slammed against the brick was; stars exploding in his skull, and a mob had gathered, an angry mob…

Van Alden knew he was about to die…

The mob began to close in…

**_"Stop!"_ **

The voice was overpoweringly loud; loud enough to make the ground tremble underfoot, loud enough to shatter streetlamps and all the windows…

There, in the middle of the road, stood Frank Capone, the giant tusked Gyp Rosetti at his side. Van Alden slid to the ground, back against the brick wall, heart thumping wildly in his chest.

“He’s don’t nothing to harm you,” Capone said. “Let him go.”

The ringleader turned to him.

“We don’t want you Changed in our neighborhoods; and we don’t want you putting your filthy paws on our children. For what he did, this fucking Changed gets what he deserves.”

“As will you all…”

Capone spoke softly, but everyone heard.

_Mueller...Can you hear me?_

 Van Alden jerked into sudden stillness. That was Frank Capone’s voice, but only in his head…

Trembling now, he barely dared to nod.

 _Whatever happens_ , Capone’s mental voice continued. _Do not move.  Not even an inch to the left or right.  You must be utterly still_ …

Again, Van Alden nodded. The mob had parted now, on his left and right. Frank Capone stood there, head bowed. Then he lifted his head…

His eyes were glowing; a white hot glow. And the world…

The world exploded.

Power, heat, and light leaped up, a storm of power that lashed into the crowd…

Van Alden closed his eyes against the blinding brilliance. But, even through closed eyelids, he could see…

The Power tore through the bodies of men, tearing them apart, rending them down…

Bodies exploded into red mist all around Van Alden, drenching him in blood, and worse…

But the storm continued, seeking out every man in that mob; even the ones who had dropped their clubs and tried to flee…

Then it was over, and only three remained alive; Gyp Rosetti, Frank Capone, and Nelson Van Alden, huddled against the brick wall.

He was shivering, twitching in mortal terror.

“They’re gone, George,” Capone’s voice brought him back. Go home to your wife and kids.”

* * *

_Atlantic City_

“Well?”

Nucky Thompson glared at Richard Harrow.

“Well…what?” Harrow looked back at him, tilting his head.

“Am I going nuts, or what?”

“Hm…”

“Don’t give me _hm_ ,” Nucky hissed in exasperation. “A simple yes or no, if you please…”

The silence was tense.

“You’re not insane,” Harrow finally said. “A friend of mine had the same dream, saw you in it, and everything…”

“The same dream?” Nucky frowned.

“The exact same dream. You, me, and the body in the mud…” Harrow hesitated. “It’s got to be re-“

“Don’t you dare say that!” Nucky snapped. “If it’s real, then the Change is real, the powers are real, and the fuckin’ end of the world is real.”

“And it _is_ ,” Harrow nodded. “Two Powers have been… awakened…out Cicero way. Might be that the man in your dream was one of them.”

“But he’s… _dead_!” Nucky stood, began to pace fretfully. Then, he realized…

 _Oh, god, I can see the future_ …

“Sir?” Harrow’s voice brought him back, and Nucky sat again, finally able to look it square in the face.

“I can see the future,” he sighed; and Harrow sighed too, a sigh of… _relief_?

“I was wondering if I would have to beat you over the head with it.”

“You…” Nucky stared at him with wide eyes. “You _knew_?”

“Yeah…” Harrow admitted. “That’s my Change. I can see the Changes in everyone else. So, here is my question. Are we in a war?”

And Nucky knew…

“Yeah…” he sighed again. “I guess we are…”

Harrow nodded, not at all put out. But then, he had been in a war before.

 _The War to end all wars_ …

But it hadn’t, because here they all were, facing a totally different kind of war.

A War of Power…

“You and I need to go now.” He said.

“Cicero?” Harrow stood.

“Yes, and we will need to leave immediately,” Nucky stood too. “It’ll take us a few days to get there, even if we drive in shifts; and it might be too late anyway.”

 _Too late_ …

In the dream, the man he had to find was dead.

 _How can that **not** be too late_?

* * *

_Cicero, Illinois_

Sigrid was humming softly as she put the clean laundry away. Then, that chore done, she set to work clearing the dishes from the children’s lunch.

Abigail was playing with her baby brother, something involving lots of tickles and lots of giggles.

Then, as Sigrid gathered up the dishes, the front door opened, and a… _apparition_ …staggered in.

The dishes slid from her hands, crashing to the floor as she recognized her husband.

He was soaked in…blood.

From head to foot, he was painted in red all over, even his hair and face. His eyes held a dazed, numb look.

“Nelson!” she ran up to him, looked him over for signs of injury. But she couldn’t tell. It was almost as if he didn’t see her, except for the fact that he stepped around her, walking to the bathroom.

Quickly, Sigrid moved to the children’s bedroom, and closed the door quietly as they played. She heard the shower turning on, ran to fetch some of the largest towels.

There he was, her beloved husband, standing fully clothed, the shower rinsing the blood off. He was shaking, and Sigrid realized…

 _He's weeping_ …

The blood was finally rinsed away. Sigrid turned the shower off.

“Come out, my beloved,” she spoke softly. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”

She wrapped him up in the towels, and held him tightly, feeling his body tremble against her…

* * *

Nelson Van Alden slowly came back to himself. He felt Sigrid’s arms around him, and the comfort she gave…

He could have stayed there forever.

But he knew, now, what he had to do. He got to his feet, and walked into the bedroom.

“What happened?” Sigrid asked as he pulled on a clean undershirt.

“It’s not safe here anymore,” he finished dressing quickly.

“You and the children have to leave,” he went to a small painting on the wall, removed the envelope from behind it. In that envelope was rainy day money, kept aside in case flight was necessary.

That day had come…

“Where are the children, Sigrid?” He thumbed through the cash.

“I shut their bedroom door when you came in, my love. I didn’t want them to see you like _that_ …”

Van Alden nodded.

“Do you have any relatives that aren’t here? Or nearby?”

“I have an uncle in California. He’s a cameraman, and makes movies in Hollywood"

“Good, far away from here. Get the children ready.”

And so it was done…

Van Alden watched the train, an Express to Los Angeles, pull away. He had already sent a telegram to Sigrid’s uncle, informing him of the impending arrival. He had done everything he could to keep his family safe. He had promised Sigrid he would join her at the earliest opportunity.

But something told him that opportunity would never come. He knew how it was going to end.

 _I'm going to die_ … _Today or tomorrow, it makes no real difference_ …


	3. Finding Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van alden must face his fate. Nucky and Harrow find that which must be found...

Nucky Thompson was driving, Richard Harrow riding shotgun. Finally they were in Illinois, heading toward Cicero. But Nucky had no idea how to find what he was looking for.

_I don't even know what he looks like, for chrissakes_!

“How long before you find him?” Harrow asked.

“I dunno…” Nucky shrugged, hands taut on the wheel. It was early afternoon, the morning’s blue skies giving way to ominous storm clouds on massing on the horizon. Nucky remembered the rain in his dreams.

_Could be we find him today_ …

* * *

“Frankie’s changed,” there was a fretful tone in Al Capone’s voice, and Nelson Van Alden couldn’t fault him for worrying. In a way, the Change that had come over Frank Capone was worse than what was happening to Gyp Rosetti.

Every time Van Alden closed his eyes, he relived the experience again; the storm of Power shredding bodies, splattering him with their blood…

“He wants to see my son,” Al Capone continued. “How do I protect Sonny? He’s just a kid…”

“Your son’s safety is the most important consideration.” Van Alden agreed. He missed Sigrid and his children. But they were far away from here, and safe. He had just received a telegram from Sigrid, and they were all safe and living with her Uncle Olaf, in Hollywood; and Abigail was wondering when her Daddy would come too…

Van Alden closed his eyes, pain tearing at his soul.

_I love you too, my little Abigail_ …

“What am I gonna do, Mueller?”

“Send your son, and all that you love, far away from here,” Van Alden said. “Frank Capone is dangerous now, like a wild animal.”

“He’s my _brother_!” there was agony in Al Capone’s voice.

“The Plague has Changed him. There isn’t anything you can do.”

“Fuckin’ Plague,” Capone snarled. “It killed Ralph. Looks like he was the lucky one too…”

In spite of all the things that were wrong with Al Capone; the cocaine habit, and the fact that he was perhaps the most casual killer Van Alden had ever met, Van Alden couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

_Forced to watch helplessly as his only remaining brother turns into a monster_ …

It was time to go to work. Van Alden’s job had changed.

_No more collections_ …

He had gotten a promotion; and the mere fact of a promotion made him profoundly uneasy. First, it made all the other members of the Capone Gang-men who had been there far longer than he-bitterly jealous, and resentful of the man who had been jumped over them for no apparent reason. Van Alden, especially, couldn’t see the reason for it.

_The other, more senior members of the gang must have proven their loyalty dozens of times over_. _What have I got that they don't_?

The answer was pretty clear when he thought about it. Frank Capone had Power.

_I have power too_ …

He had healed a little girl’s broken leg.

_So Frank wants me near...why_?  _To keep an eye on me?_  

_He sees me as a threat to his power_.

That was why Van Alden had stayed behind when he sent his family away.

_If they're far from me, they're safe from him_ …

So now he was driving Frank Capone’s…car. It was more of an armored tank than anything else. Not that Frank Capone was really afraid of people who wanted to kill him. It was more on account of his bodyguard…

No ordinary car could have born Gyp Rossetti’s weight.

Gyp Rossetti had used to be a bit of a fashion plate before the Plague.

Now, he looked and dressed like a monster. Getting out of the car, he presented a horrifying image, dressed in leather trousers and vest, with a bandolier across his bare chest, holding a machine gun that had been made just for him. Like Rossetti, it was a monster; only Rossetti could fire it accurately. Van Alden had tried to fire it once. The kick-back was _ferocious_ …

After Rossetti, Van Alden and Frank Capone got out of the car. Capone’s favorite diner-Rudy’s-was just ahead. Van Alden looked around; a subtle sense of alarm prickling along his nerves. The placement of the cars, and the men, in the street and on the sidewalks…something was off…

“Down!” He shoved Frank Capone down to the sidewalk, just in time…

The hail of bullets missed their intended targets, shattering glass windows, pocking brick walls, and striking innocent bystanders. They also hit Gyp Rossetti…

But Rossetti’s skin was tougher than it had been before the Plague; and they didn’t even hurt him. All they did was anger him…

He roared once, then he was off, tearing into the attackers with fists, claws, and teeth. It was bloody carnage out there, and Van Alden did his best to steer clear of it.

_He doesn't need my help anyway_ …

“You? You’re with them?”

A man stood in front of him, gun drawn, and Van Alden knew him from before…

Before the Plague, before his fall from grace, even before Atlantic City…

Robert Steinhauer; a fellow Prohibition Agent. Van Alden froze.

_He knows who I am_. _He knows I killed Agent Sebso_ …

“Drop your gun, Van Alden!” Steinhauer ordered, and he raised his gun, ready to kill.

That was when Capone struck with his Power. It was smaller this time, only the one victim, but no less horrifying…

Steinhauer brought his free hand up to his face, as a sudden flow of blood gushed from his nose, and Van Alden saw the bones of the man’s face begin to buckle and collapse…

“No,” he cried out. “Please…”

But Capone didn’t hear Van Alden’s plea for mercy. Steinhauer dropped his gun, both hands holding his head as he screamed, his face crumpling before Van Alden’s horrified eyes, blood streaming from nose, ears, and eyes…

Finally, it was over…

Van Alden looked down at the body of a man who had once-in a different world-been a friend of his. The head was an unrecognizable mess of blood and jelly…

Rosetti was back now, most of the attackers dead or fled. There were one or two left behind, not dead, but too wounded to flee, and Capone’s underlings were busy rounding those up for questioning. But Van Alden knew what they were…

“Feds,” he spoke quietly to Capone. “Those were Federal Agents.”

“Yeah…” Frank grunted. “Speaking of which, he…” he gestured at Steinhauer’s body. “He called you Van Alden...George. Care to explain that?”

Van Alden sighed, closed his eyes.

_Caught_ …

“My name’s not George Mueller,” he finally said, opening his eyes. “I’m Nelson Van Alden, and I used to be a Prohibition Agent.”

“I heard about you,” Capone narrowed his eyes. “You’re wanted. For the murder of a fellow Agent…”

“Eric Sebso…” Van Alden said. “I drowned him, with my own bare hands…”

“So that’s why you came here to Cicero?”

“To try and live a new life,” Van Alden admitted. “I’ve lost everything from my old life, my wife, my career…”

_My self-respect_ …

“Everything from before is gone,” he continued. “What else could I do but move on?”

Frank Capone nodded. When he spoke next, his voice was brisk.

“So we were attacked by Feds?”

“Yes, sir,” Van Alden nodded. Capone nodded too.

”I’ll have to visit Washington,” he said, smiling. “Give them a piece of my mind.”

“But that would mean…war.”Van Alden protested.

“Only if I leave anything alive.” Van Alden felt cold.

_He's going to bring the Federal Government down_ …

Capone motioned to Gyp Rosetti.

“Go home and prepare for the trip to Washington,” he ordered Rosetti. “I’ll want you at your best for that.”

Rosetti grunted at that, then ran off.  He could run faster than the average car or truck…

Rudy’s Diner was still open, even after having been host to an unannounced shooting party; and, although the waiters were just a little more rattled than usual, the food was up to its normal standards of excellence. After that, Frank Capone had another driver, Stan Toreschi, drive the car out of Cicero and into rural Illinois.

During the drive, Van Alden looked out the car window, up at the sky. It was overcast now, and there was the sound of distant thunder.

”Stop here,” Frank commanded. The storm arrived as the three men got out of the car, thunder pealing, lightning flashing.

“I’m sorry, Mueller,” Frank said. “You’ve been loyal and true, even if you were a Fed before. But I can’t let you live. You know that.”

Van Alden sighed. He knew…

“Sir?” Toreschi was confused.

“I’d do it myself,” Frank continued. “But you don’t deserve that.”

Now Van Alden  _did_ feel relief. He didn’t want to end like the others he had seen Frank Capone kill.

“Kill him,” Frank ordered Toreschi. “Make it quick and clean. He isn’t to suffer...”

Toreschi drew his gun.

Van Alden didn’t run, or plead for his life. He didn’t feel anger, or fear. All he felt was… _relief_.

_No more running_ …

He closed his eyes and waited for death to free him…

A gunshot rang out, followed by a second and a third…

* * *

Richard Harrow jerked awake to the sound of thunder. The car was still, parked on the side of a country road, the rain sheeting down. Nucky Thompson was sitting motionless at the wheel, staring out at nothing.

“Boss?” Harrow reached out a hesitant hand, tapped him on the shoulder. The man jerked as if scalded.

“Shit!” he exploded. “Don’t  _do_ that!”

“You okay?”

“Yeah…” Thompson slumped wearily. “We’re running out of time. Got to find him soon. But… how?”

“Just… _follow_ ,” Harrow suggested. “If you feel… _pulled_ …follow where it leads.”

“Uh-huh…” Thompson started the car and continued on, slowly, looking from side to side as he drove.

_He's looking for landmarks from his dreams_ , Harrow realized.

“There!” Thompson stopped the car and pointed. “That tree over there…”

Harrow got out of the car, looked at the giant gnarled tree on the left side of the rode.

“This the place?”

“Yeah…” Thompson smiled humorlessly as he got out of the car. “And there had better be a body here, or I’m going to be royally pissed.”

He certainly seemed certain of which direction to go…

One step off the road, and onto the muddy ground, and Thompson sighed, looking down at his stylish wingtips.

“The things I do in the name of the future,” he muttered softly. Abruptly, he stopped.

“Damn…”

“Body there?”

“Yeah…” Harrow heard Thompson sigh. “Give me a hand here.”

The two men stood over the body. It lay sprawled face-up on the muddy ground, eyes closed, as if asleep. He had been shot three times in the chest, blood staining his shirt and his face.

“Seen him before somewhere…” Harrow grunted.

“Yeah…” there was real sadness in Thompson’s voice.

“Nelson Van Alden,” Thompson continued. “I met him a few times in Atlantic City. Used to be a Prohibition Agent. He wound up killing his partner, Agent Sebso, although I’m not sure why. He’s the one we need to save?”

Harrow bent to check for signs of life. No pulse, no respiration.

“But he’s hot,” Harrow straightened. “No body-dead or alive-radiates that kind of heat. Some thing’s going on with him. Something important.”

Thompson nodded.

“Let’s get him into the car…”

It was a bit of an awkward fit, but they managed to stash the body in the back seat, Harrow’s overcoat flung over it…

Then they were off, heading back to Atlantic City. After a few hours, the adrenalin rush of success began to wear off, and Thompson pulled over. Now, it was Harrow’s turn to drive while Nucky Thompson rested…

* * *

Nucky Thompson jerked awake suddenly. It was bright outside. A clear summer day…

“You all right?” Harrow continued to drive, attention on the road.

“Yeah…” Nucky yawned and stretched. “How long did I sleep?”

“About twelve hours.”

“ _Twelve_? Why didn’t you stop and wake me?”

“Don’t need as much sleep as I did before the Plague, and you were wiped.”

Abruptly, he stopped the car, sat there, head cocked.

“Hear that?”

“What?”

“Listen…”

So Nucky listened, skin crawling…

Something rustled…

“In the back seat!” Nucky leaned over the back, peering at Van Alden’s body. It lay exactly as they had left it, Harrow’s over-coat shrouding the man’s upper body, one arm splayed out.

_What caused that rustling sound_?

He leaned over and touched the hand. It twitched.

“Gah!” Nucky reared back, and his head collided with the car’s roof.

“Shit!” he rubbed the back of his head, snarling curses under his breath. Then he froze…

The body was trembling, arms and legs twitching.

“Wasn’t he dead just a few hours ago?” he hissed to Harrow.

“Yeah,” Harrow was also leaning over the back seat. “Think he’s alive now…”

Nucky bent over the car seat again. Just in time…

Suddenly, Van Alden’s body jerked upright, to a sitting position, eyes wide and staring, mouth agape in a soundless scream as his body convulsed. Nucky grabbed him by the shoulders, and held on.

“It’s going to be okay,” he wasn’t certain if Van Alden understood. “We’re taking you home where you’ll be safe.”

The body was burning hot under his hands, as the convulsions continued. Then, as quickly as it had started, the body slumped backward and was still. Alarmed, Nucky reached over, practically spilling himself from the front seat as he checked for a pulse.

_You had better not be dead after all of that_ …

The pulse was rapid, but strong and steady.

_Hot...He's burning up_ …

They raced back to Atlantic City, got there in record time; and soon they were at Nucky’s house. Margaret Schroeder was running out as he and Harrow half-carried, half-dragged Van Alden’s body between them.

“What in the world happened?” she demanded.

“A shooting,” Nucky snapped. “Where’s a doctor?”

* * *

Richard Harrow and Nucky Thompson watched as the doctor examined the patient. The blood-stained clothing Van Alden had been wearing had been stripped off. Now, he was wrapped in sheets and blankets. The doctor had parted the sheets, was looking at the unconscious man’s bare chest in disbelief.

“You say he was shot yesterday?” he turned to Thompson.

“Near as I can figure, yes,” Thompson nodded.

Harrow could understand the doctor’s confusion. The visible gunshot wounds looked to be at least partially healed. But the placement of those wounds…

“He shouldn’t have survived,” the doctor said. “Not wounds like these. He should have died instantly.”

_He did_ , Harrow thought to himself, knew that was foremost in Thompson’s mind too. Not that that was anything either man would have said out loud…

There was a disturbance downstairs, and Harrow heard Thompson sigh…

“Just take care of him,” Thompson said. “I’ll be back.”

Harrow followed him down to the kitchen. Everyone was there, Margaret, her children, and all the help, listening to the radio…

… _And the White House has been reduced to rubble_. _I repeat_ , _The President of the United states has been slain_ , _a_ _long with all of the members of the Senate and the House of Representatives_. _All of the leaders of our great nation are dead_ , _killed by Frank Capone_ , _in retaliation for an attack upon him by Federal Agents_. _Mr. Capone's victory is total_. _The United states Government has fallen_. _May God have mercy on our souls_ …

Harrow looked at Thompson. He was, after all, the one who could see the future.

“Harrow, get Eli. Tell him we all have to leave.”

“ _Leave_?” Margaret gasped. “Where would we go?”

“Don’t think there’s anywhere that’s safe,” Harrow agreed.

“We’re going to… _get out of the way_ ,” Thompson nodded. “We’re going back to covered wagons, people. Mobility is the word of the day. Mobility is what will keep us safe. We start moving, and we  _keep_ moving, because the day we stop moving is the day we all die. So move it people!”

* * *

Three days later, and they were all on the road, leaving the mostly deserted Atlantic City behind. It saddened Nucky, not least because all his hopes and dreams had been there.

Well, the Change Plague had changed all of that. Now, his hopes and dreams were of an entirely different order…

He climbed aboard the lead wagon.

His brother, Eli, was driving, Richard Harrow riding shotgun, both literally and figuratively. So Nucky went to the back of the wagon, where Margaret was keeping watch over Nelson Van Alden.

He still lay in that…coma, and Nucky was more than a little frightened.

_Right now, Nelson Van Alden is the world's only hope_. _When is he going to wake up_? **_Will_** _he wake up_?

The world was changing right under Nucky’s feet, gearing up for a war that would make The Great War look like child’s play.

_And here I am, trying to save the world_ …

What a giant kick in the pants it was all turning out to be.

A War of Power, with gangsters on both sides of the fray.

_What if it's gangsters who save the world_?


	4. The Plague Years, Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nelsen Van Alden wakes up. Nucky explains everything...

_Cicero, Illinois_

Frank Capone smiled as he got out of the car. The Washington trip had gone well.

 _No more Federal Government to poke its nose into our business_ …

The state governments would learn to toe Capone’s line.

 _Or they'll go the way of the Feds..._ …

“Get some sleep,” he told his bodyguard, Gyp Rossetti. Not that he really needed a bodyguard. He had proven that in DC.

But Rossetti’s presence-the horrifying bestiality of the man-had prevented more than a few tragic misunderstandings…

Rossetti grunted, mumbled something the tusks made unintelligible. Then, he was off to his kennel.

One of Frank's lieutenants was outside, waiting for him; as was only proper. But he looked distinctly uneasy, and Al-who was usually the one to greet him-was conspicuously absent.

“Where’s my brother?”

The lieutenant flinched.

“Sorry, boss,” he said. “Al took off late last night, took his kid, Sonny, with him. Said this ain’t any kind of place for a kid to grow up in.”

“I see…”

Frank  _did_ see.

 _Family first_ …

Besides, while Al had been Changed by the Plague, his powers were piddling little things compared to Frank.

Al was now immune to all diseases-including the one he had already-and, in a really ironic stroke, also completely immune to all drugs and poisons. Watching Al snort all that cocaine, to absolutely no effect, was kind of funny, in a tragic way.

But he was no threat whatsoever to Frank’s power.

Frank could level entire blocks of buildings with a mere thought, eradicate whole neighborhoods in seconds flat. He could bring lightning down from a cloudless sky. An entire army had been reduced to pools of blood and roasted flesh.

In fact, there had only been one man who could threaten Frank Capone; and he was dead. Frank Capone had made sure of that.

George Mueller…

Nelson Van Alden…

Frank had disliked the necessity of having him killed. Whatever his name, the man had been a loyal underling; and it was clear Mueller hadn’t wanted the power.

He didn’t seem to have an ambitious bone in his body. But power, the kind of power Frank had now; he was learning that power changed a man.

He wasn’t the same man he had been before the Plague.

So, the Power would have changed Mueller too.

The man had died bravely.

 _No running, or begging for his life_ …

But he had to die.

 _Like me, his power would have grown.  We would have become enemies_ …

* * *

_Somewhere, out in the wilds_

It had been a week since the Great Evacuation; and the convoy of covered wagons were slowly trekking as far away from civilization as possible. With the fall of the Federal Government, lawlessness had returned in full force, and the cities were fast becoming death-traps.

Margaret Schroeder, tending to her children, and one comatose patient, aboard Enoch Thompson’s wagon, had been saddened to see how utterly correct Thompson’s predictions had been.

New York had…erupted; casualties in the thousands over the course of just one weekend. One of those casualties had been Arnold Rothstein.

 _Everything has gone topsy-turvy_ …

Now it was safer out in the wilds.

 _Provided you had an army with you_ …

That was exactly what Thompson’s convoy was; an armed, mobile camp.

Margaret had told the children to be quiet as they played, and they _were_ , giggles softly muted; and as they played, she looked at her patient. She was of two minds about Nelson Van Alden.

They had met before, and-for her, at least, the encounter had not been a felicitous one…

His religious fanaticism had been obnoxious, and his…obsession…with her had angered, and frightened her.

But Enoch had brought Van Alden back to Atlantic City, half-dead from gunshot wounds; and rumors abounded that he  _had_ died from those wounds.

Neither Enoch Thompson, nor Richard Harrow, would confirm those rumors. But Margaret could see that Enoch was just a little bit frightened; and if it wasn’t the rumors, then what was it that frightened him so?

And, despite what the rumors might say, Nelson Van Alden surely wasn’t dead now…

He seemed to be asleep, wrapped up in warm blankets, chest slowly rising and falling.

The Change Plague had changed everything. It turned men into monsters, and toppled governments.

 _Can it bring a dead man back to life_?

* * *

Nelson Van Alden was dreaming…

 _Sitting at the Dinner-table, Rose's hand in his as he prays_. _He feels her sadness; sadness in her unfulfilled state_.

 _In the apartment he shares with Lucy_ , _Rose's anger, her **rage**_. _Lucy had given him the child Rose could not_ …

 _Again, he is in the lake_ , _hands holding Agent Eric Sebso down as he drowns_.

 _The world creaks and groans all around him_ , _and in that sound_ , _Van Alden can hear the moans and cries of all the damned souls in Hell_ …

His eyes opened.

He heard soft giggles, the sound of children playing.

_Abigail?_

But the world still creaked and groaned all around him.

_Am I awake, or still dreaming?_

Someone was bending over him. He recognized the woman’s face.

"Margaret Schroeder?” his voice was a dry, dusty-sounding croak.

“That’s me,” her Irish lilting voice was still the same.

Van Alden looked around, trying to get his bearings.

“Where are we?”

“I’ll get my husband,” Margaret replied. “He’ll explain.”

Then, she was gone.

_Her husband?_

He was dead, on the orders of Enoch Thompson. Van Alden had been certain of that. But the evidence kept on eluding him, and now…

Now, it no longer mattered.

Now, Van Alden was as guilty as Thompson, his hands just as unclean…

He looked down at himself in the dim candle-light.

He had been wrapped in blankets, virtually swaddled. Apart from the blankets, there was nothing to cover his nakedness. The scars on his chest were plainly visible, and they made him pause.

He wasn’t any kind of doctor; but he had shot enough men to know what the grouping of those three gunshot wounds meant.

 _I should have died_ …

“Finally…”

Enoch Thompson’s voice jarred Van Alden right down to his toes…

“I was beginning to think you would never wake up,” Thompson was saying. “Thirsty?”

He held out a water skin, but Van Alden hesitated.

Thompson rolled his eyes.

“Relax,” he groused. “It’s only water.”

It was tepid, but soothed Van Alden’s parched throat just fine.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“We’re in a convoy of covered wagons,” Thompson replied. “Just trying to stay out of the way.”

Van Alden sat up slowly, pulling the blankets around his shoulders.

“Out of the way of _what_? What happened to make you pull up stakes like this?”

“The Federal Government is fallen,” Thompson was grim. “Frank Capone brought it down, and now it looks like he’s on his way to becoming America’s ruler.”

“A new American Caesar…” Van Alden murmured.

“Yeah,” Thompson nodded. “So, we’re staying out of his way, hoping he won’t notice us, making sure he doesn’t find _you_.”

“Me?” Van Alden’s voice cracked a little. “For God’s sake… _why_?”

“You tell me,” Thompson stared at him. “He had you shot for chrissakes. When I found you, you were dead.”

_Dead?_

“No,” he shook his head. “That’s…impossible!”

“Yeah?” Thompson loomed over him. “I found you; and you were dead. As the proverbial doorknob. You weren’t breathing. Your heart wasn’t beating.”

Again, Van Alden looked down at his bare chest, at the scars. He remembered standing there, in the oncoming storm, with Frank Capone and Stan Toreschi. He remembered waiting for his death…

The explosive sound, the sudden, _horrendous_ , agony. And then…

 _I woke up here_ …

“What possible reason could you have for looking for me in the first place?”

Thompson sighed irritably.

“It’s all a mess,” he admitted. “But I’m going to assume you caught the Change Plague.”

“How could you know that?” Van Alden demanded, and Thompson chuckled mirthlessly.

“Dead men don’t just…wake up,” he said. “You woke up about twelve hours after I found you. Scared the shit out of me too. Then you fell back into this…coma. You were out of it for seven more days. But I guess getting shot and killed takes a lot out of a body.”

 _I guess it does_ …

Van Alden fought off the hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble up.

 _Get a grip_ …

“So you’re keeping me hidden from Frank Capone?”

“Yes,” Thompson nodded. “This is becoming a war; and without you, the world will burn.”

Van Alden couldn’t hold off the laughter this time; and even he could hear the hysteria, the blackness behind it…

The smart rap of Thompson’s knuckles across his cheek turned the laughter off; leaving Van Alden feeling breathless; sudden rage boiling up.

“Sorry,” Thompson apologized. “I know you’re reeling right now. But this is too important. The entire world is at risk right now. There’s…darkness coming. I may not be the most morally upstanding person in the world. But I don’t want the world to be destroyed, and neither do you.”

The sudden rage faded, leaving Van Alden feeling…empty.

“No,” he agreed. “I don’t want that…”

Frank Capone was bringing Darkness to the world.

“What could I possibly do against _that_?”

“You caught the Change Plague, didn’t you? Didn’t it change you?”

“Well…” Van Alden shrugged, feeling awkward.

“I healed a little girl’s broken leg,” he finally admitted. “But I don’t know how I did it.”

“Then why were you shot?” Thompson demanded. “I know Capone ordered it.”

“I think he was trying to be merciful…”

“Merciful?” Thompson repeated.

“You’ve never seen Frank Capone kill,” Van Alden shuddered, remembering…

“I’ve heard how he kills,” Thompson remained impassive. “I want to know why he wanted you dead.”

“He found out who I really was,” Van Alden closed his eyes, remembering Robert Steinhauer, how the man had died.

“I was living in Cicero, as George Mueller. There was an attempt on Capone’s life-Feds-one of whom had been a friend of mine before…before…”

He couldn’t finish.

“So…this Fed told Frank Capone who you really were?”

“Yes,” Van Alden nodded. “I guess Frank must have thought that, due to what I had been before working for him, that I could no longer be trusted.”

“It sounds reasonable on the surface,” Thompson said. “But I wouldn’t have had you killed for that; and most people I know in similar positions wouldn’t have had you killed for that either. Unless they’re the trigger-happy sort. Did Frank Capone strike you as being trigger-happy?”

“No…” Van Alden shook his head. “He’s as cold as ice, that one…”

There was a tense silence, as Van Alden tried to wrap his mind around what Thompson was telling him.

“I can’t be that important,” he finally said. “I’m no more a creature of light than you are.”

“Time will tell,” Thompson looked down at him. “For now, however, we have other things facing us. There are clothes that should fit you well enough. The trousers are a touch wide, but they come with suspenders. One last question…”

“Yes?” Van Alden was feeling just a touch overwhelmed right now.

“Do you know anything about animal husbandry?”

 _Animal husbandry_?

“I grew up on a farm…”

 _Until my father gave up the farm to follow Reverend Edgerton Sterry_ …

But that was neither here, nor there.

“A farm boy, eh?” Thompson smiled slightly.

“Yes, Mr. Thompson,” Van Alden nodded. “I’ve milked cows, shod horses, baled hay…”

 _Until eighteen-ninety-two_ …

He had been happy on that farm; how happy he hadn’t realized.

Until now…

“Good,” Thompson was nodding too. “You’re hired.”

“I’m… _what_?”

But Thompson had turned, was riffling through a pile of clothing, flinging appropriate items in Van Alden’s direction.

“Make yourself presentable,” he ordered. “Then join me outside, and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the gang.”

* * *

It was only early afternoon. But Eli Thompson and Chalky White had decided to stop and set camp up for the day. It was a good place to stop, with shady groves, and a swift-running river nearby.

 _Clean, fresh water_ …

Now, Eli and Chalky were setting camp up for the evening.

Nelson Van Alden came out of Nucky’s wagon, looking out-of-place in the somewhat shabby clothes he was now wearing.

“Over here,” Nucky gestured. Introductions, to Eli, Chalky, and Richard Harrow, were made quickly. Harrow was studying Van Alden intently. Harrow had said his gift was to see what Powers other people had…

“Camp’s set for the night,” Eli Thompson said. “Is the watch set?”

“Yeah…” Chalky White replied. “We gotta get the cook-fires set, or we won’t eat…”

“All right,” Nucky nodded. “Why don’t you take Nelson with you and get those fires set?”

Nucky watched Chalky move off with Van Alden, while Eli went off to finish the last of the camp set up. Now, he and Richard Harrow were alone.

“Did you get a good look at him?” Nucky asked.

“Yeah…” Harrow tilted his head in that odd way of his. “He’s so bright, he shines like the Sun. It could be…dangerous…having him here.”

He was looking at Chalky White and Nelson Van Alden as he spoke.

“Dangerous?” Nucky repeated. “How, and to whom?”

“Can’t tell yet, Boss. But his first act of Power was to heal a girl’s broken leg, you said. That means Van Alden’s power is Light-Aspected, as opposed to Frank Capone’s, which seems to be Aspected to Dark.”

“So, Van Alden should be less dangerous, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Harrow said. “Light can be every bit as destructive as Dark,”

“All right, “Nucky turned back to Harrow. “So…any idea as to what he can do?”

“No,” Harrow admitted. “We won’t be able to tell what he can do until he actually does it. But, I can tell you this; whatever his capabilities are, they’ll be… _big_.”

_Oh...joy..._

Nucky watched Van Alden as he worked, under Chalky White’s supervision. Van Alden towered over virtually everyone; those shabby, ill-fitting clothes making him look more scarecrow-like than anything else.

There was this…shy awkwardness…to the man.

 _As if he expects to be rejected_ …

That worried Nucky.

 _A man like this, with powers like that_ …

Nucky had heard all the reports of what Frank Capone had done in Washington.

 _Here I am, sheltering a man who might equal Frank Capone in power_ …

Nelson Van Alden hadn’t shown any signs of that kind of power; not yet, at least.

But having Van Alden here, in his camp, felt a lot like transporting nitroglycerine in a tipsy wagon.

 _Hope he doesn't explode_ …


End file.
